Diary

ByJohn Robert QuinnOctober 23, 1981

Early this morning Sixteen juncos foraged Beneath the feeder, Dark gray against the thin Pelt of newborn snow. At lunch time Baked apples in fireplace, McIntosh That fell apart like June Roses. Mended The redware pitcher Lucifer broke Sparring with a spider: Twenty-one pieces Glued back like an old love. No visitors; not even A telephone call.